Somewhere a Clock is Ticking
by K. Dunn
Summary: As the edges of his vision grew dark, only one thing stood out clearly to him. Printed in bold black lettering across the pink fabric of the young girl's shirt was a simple yet frightening phrase: Not a Flu.


"Check the cars for supplies."

He could barely make out the sound of the muffled voice. Rhode found himself in immense pain as a wave of nausea overtook him, a metallic taste filling his mouth. Opening his eyes, he was greeted by the harsh sunlight pouring through a cracked windshield. Static erupted from the radio with only the occasional word being audible at times, and the noxious odor of smoke filled his nostrils. To his left, the body of a young man was slumped over the steering wheel. Outside the driver's window, a figure stepped into his line of sight. Being taller than the vehicle, whoever it was only had their torso visible through the small space allotted by the window. Rising up a shotgun, the figure slammed the butt of the weapon into the glass frame. The boy flinched instinctively as the glass shattered, its remnants scattering into the car.

The individual smoothed out the ruffles in his plaid red-and-blue button-up, shaking off bits of glass from his clothing. Using the palm of his hand, the sharply dressed man removed any excess glass left. He casually reached into the vehicle, and the injured boy heard the familiar click of the automatic locks. The door creaked as it opened, and the man leaned into the automobile, placing his hand on the neck of the driver.

"Dead," the man announced as if it was commonplace to see a dead body.

Reaching over the corpse, the guy began rummaging through the compartment between the seats, running a hand through his blonde hair as he did so. With the stranger being so close, Rhode could see a set of lacerations on the bloke's right cheek. They were undoubtedly fresh and looked as though they had been left behind by claws. In a desperate attempt to gain aid, the wounded boy strained to lift his head from where it was plastered to the dashboard. Moving only served to intensify the pain he felt, causing him to grip his abdomen as a pained cry escaped his lips. The man in plaid leaped back in surprise; bashing his head on the vehicle's ceiling and cursing.

"Damn it!" he shouted, rubbing his head.

Scampering out of the car, he quickly raced to the passenger's side and slung the door open.

"Jesus, kid! You scared the hell outta me!"

Slinging Rhode's arm onto his neck, the man wrapped his own arm around the boy's waist and gently lifted him from the wreckage. As he was brought up, Rhode could feel blood trickling down his face. Lightheaded, he could barely hold himself up, and the man with claw marks basically had to carry him as they made their way up a grassy slope.

"Ya really got yourself banged up, bud," the Good Samaritan expressed, his Southern accent becoming apparent as they stepped forward.

The man's words compelled Rhode wonder if he could actually look worse than he felt. As they moved along slowly, he found his vision was beginning to fail him. His surroundings seemed to blur as if he was seeing the world through a pair of dirty goggles. A dark blur appeared to be scurrying down the slope, revealing itself to be a young girl when it was a mere few feet away. As the girl started to converse with the man, Rhode tried to take in as much of the scene around him as he could actually see. Vaguely, he could recall the road had been practically deserted when his car veered off of it, yet now the highway was cluttered with abandoned vehicles. Several of the automobiles were smashed into one another, the ground was littered with at least a dozen bodies, and blood slicked the road like a fresh coat of paint. The grotesque sight made him sick to his stomach, and he could feel bile rising in his throat.

He pulled away from his savior and fell on his knees. Gripping the side of a vehicle so tightly that his knuckles turned white, he retched all over the concrete. Weakening his grip, his limbs shook uncontrollably as he wiped his arm across his mouth. Rhode tried to steady his breathing, but having used up the last of his energy, he collapsed backwards onto the cold asphalt. Everything in sight blurred together as his rescuers dashed towards him. As the edges of his vision grew dark, only one thing stood out clearly to him. Printed in bold black lettering across the pink fabric of the young girl's shirt was a simple yet frightening phrase: **Not a Flu.**

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><p><strong>So thus begins my first fanfiction!<strong> Hopefully you guys enjoyed reading this tidbit of my writing.<strong> Any comments, questions, or criticism would be greatly appreciated as I embark on this journey to improve my writing skills.**


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